


help me piece it all together, darling

by evanescent



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (and later), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Archivist Sasha James, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Humor, Relationship Study, but like. with a twist?, desolation tim, firmly believe tim could give martin a run for his money when it comes to pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescent/pseuds/evanescent
Summary: Sasha has her chair turned away from the door, gently fanning herself with a file she’s too tired to continue reading when she hears a light knock on the door and it creaks open. “Hey, boss, I have something for you.”“If it’s not Martha Lynch’s statement, Tim, then I don’t want it,” she calls back, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She should get new glasses finally.“Oh, that’s a shame,” Tim remarks, mock heartbroken. “I guess I will take this box of chocolatesandthe continuation of Trevor the vampire hunter’s statement that I accidentally found, and give them to someone who will appreciate them.”Sasha spins in her chair so abruptly she almost falls out of it. “Wait. You can come in, actually.”Tim grins, entering the office. “That’s what I thought,” he says cheerfully, brandishing both the box and the file. The moment he sits down, Sasha snatches the latter out of his hand. “Aaand there she goes,” he mutters under his breath, sounding amused....Sasha and Tim navigate things like work emergencies, trauma, crafts, losing one's humanity, hair cuts and not giving up.
Relationships: Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	help me piece it all together, darling

**Author's Note:**

> i've always loved sasha and timsasha but mag 161 & 162 were written to cater to me specifically and made sasharchivist live in my head rent free, so here we are
> 
> no one dies on screen but unfortunately people still die. warnings for canon-typical unhealthy behaviors and themes associated with the lonely later on, so please tread carefully
> 
> the title is from bastille's quarter past midnight which is a little bit of a timsasha song

Sasha has her chair turned away from the door, gently fanning herself with a file she’s too tired to continue reading when she hears a light knock on the door and it creaks open. “Hey, boss, I have something for you.”

“If it’s not Martha Lynch’s statement, Tim, then I don’t want it,” she calls back, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She should get new glasses finally.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Tim remarks, mock heartbroken. “I guess I will take this box of chocolates _and_ the continuation of Trevor the vampire hunter’s statement that I accidentally found, and give them to someone who will appreciate them.”

Sasha spins in her chair so abruptly she almost falls out of it. “Wait. You can come in, actually.”

Tim grins, entering the office. “That’s what I thought,” he says cheerfully, brandishing both the box and the file. The moment he sits down, Sasha snatches the latter out of his hand. “Aaand there she goes,” he mutters under his breath, sounding amused.

She puts her glasses back on and leafs through the file, her eyes quickly taking in the contents. “It _is_ the second part of Trevor Herbert’s account,” she muses out loud. Tim makes the _told you so_ gesture with his hands when she looks back to him. “I don’t get it. Martin said he _died_.”

“Well, seems he was wrong. It happens,” Tim answers, unfazed. Sasha levels him with a baffled look. “What? Martin is great, but he’s only human. I bet if you asked him it’d turn out that he wasn’t actually around for that, only heard about it from someone or something like that.”

“That’s… probable,” Sasha agrees, though she’s still a bit rattled about it. Come to think of it, she didn’t bother to look for any record confirming the man’s death while doing the follow-up to the first statement, assuming it to be a closed case. “Where did you even find it?”

“In some miscellaneous files from the eighties and fifties, believe it or not, while looking for Miss Lynch’s statement. Thought you’d like to get your hands on this,” Tim adds. Sasha hums; he’s right, she’s itching to read it. She makes herself put it away for now, though, as Tim nudges the box towards her and continues, “I know we’ve sort of barely started, but sometimes I feel like we will _never_ get this place in order. Gertrude sure did her job _not_ doing her job.”

Sasha snorts, picking a chocolate at random. “Mm, it does seem like it, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Tim asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I actually talked with Gertrude a couple of times,” Sasha admits, chewing on her truffle. It takes her a moment to realize the filling is marzipan, her favorite; of course Tim remembered. “She might have seemed like an aged, fragile lady, but she was anything _but_ that. And she did expect me to take over after her.”

Tim snorts softly. “No offense, Sash, but _everybody_ knew you’re the closest to being the most qualified person for the position. I just still find it surprising that Elias actually _gave_ it to you.” He clears his throat and Sasha tries very hard to keep her expression neutral as Tim puts on his best (or worst) Elias impression, “ _As we all know, the academia is still a field dominated by men, so I hope none of you fail to notice that the Magnust Institute is having its second female Head Archivist in a row._ ” Then, in his normal voice, "So yes, congratulations to our progressive boss for doing his job of, you know, appointing the right people for the right positions.”

Sasha can’t help it; she lets out a laugh at that. “Yeah, okay, I get it. But we weren’t talking about Elias.”

“Mm, true.” Tim leans back in the chair, considering her. “So what, you’re saying that good old Gertrude Robinson was actually a real life Sarah Connor Linda Hamilton’s version?”

That’s _not_ a bad comparison, but Sasha only says, “Well, she was certainly _something_. And I feel she knew what she was doing, I just don’t know _why_.”

And she can’t ask her anymore, as Gertrude has been missing and presumed dead for a couple of months now. It certainly only adds to the mystery and Sasha still isn’t sure how to begin untangling it, feeling like she doesn’t have all the necessary pieces of information. She picks up another chocolate absentmindedly, glancing at the stacks of files on her desk. The tape recorder sits in the drawer; she was going to record Christof Rudenko’s statement later today, but maybe she will shelve it for tomorrow. Sasha doesn’t particularly like recording onto the tapes; she knows it’s the best and only choice they have for some of the statements, and digitizing records is their main task for foreseeable future, yet… there’s something unnerving about the way her consciousness seems to wrap around these statements, consuming her to the point of losing awareness of her surroundings.

“Do you think they actually believe in these?” Sasha asks quietly, tapping her finger against Trevor’s file. “Jon and Martin, I mean.”

“Well, we both know why Martin is working here,” Tim says; he's not being condescending, just stating a fact. “And as for someone with no actual research experience, he’s doing pretty well.” Sasha nods; she’s still figuring out how to gently let Martin know she knows about his CV and that it’s not going to be an issue without freaking him out. She will probably wait some more, let him get more comfortable and confident. “But I don’t know, I suppose he’s willing to believe people, if anything. And as for Jon…” Tim rolls his eyes and Sasha smiles, just a little. “We’ve worked together for a couple of years now and I still have no idea what he’s getting out of this job, other than the award for the biggest contrarian.”

Sasha certainly sees his point, but she only reminds, “Well, we don’t know everything about each other. I have my experience from working in the Artefact Storage and I know turning a blind eye to the things that are true, no matter how impossible they seem, won't make them go away.” Gentler, she adds, “And you have what happened with your brother.”

Tim exhales, looks down at his hands. “Yeah.”

She lets the silence hang, but only for a moment. She clears her throat and asks, “Why did you bring me the chocolates along with the statement, anyway? They don’t sell those in the cafeteria. And you usually try to prank me with their awful decaf.”

Tim looks at her, tilts his head to the side, smiling. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Um, it’s Thursday,” Sasha says with all the confidence she isn’t feeling.

“Yeah, but the date, genius,” Tim teases.

“Not my birthday, surely —”

Eventually taking pity, he enlightens her, “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

Sasha’s hand, which was going for another chocolate, stops. She sighs. “Tim…”

“Yes, I realize Valentine’s Day is commercialized and largely heteronormative, and if you really care, you show your love all year long, but —”

“ _Tim_.”

He pauses, stops fooling around for a second. “I _know,_ Sasha. That’s not what this is about," he assures her. "It’s just a gift for you, my awesome boss and dear friend whom I appreciate deeply.”

Sasha regards him, considering. He’s sincere to a fault sometimes, she knows. “Well,” she says, eating another one, “I hope you gave chocolates to Martin and Jon, too. I’d hate for them to feel left out.”

“Who do you think I am? Of course I didn’t. It was muffins.” He grins at her. “But only to Martin, seeing as Jon still isn’t in.”

Sasha’s own smile falls and she frowns. “He isn’t?”

“Yeah, he texted me earlier. Apparently his stomach bug or whatever is still keeping him at home,” Tim says sympathetically. “He didn’t message you?”

“No.” That, in and by itself, isn’t strange; it counts that Jon let someone know. But still… “How long has it been already? A week?”

“Er, I think so?” Tim bites the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking. “Yeah, he left on Wednesday to do a follow-up and hasn’t come in since then.” Sasha wonders what and how much of it must show on her face because Tim asks, “Wait, you don’t think Jon is at home _slacking off_ , do you?”

Sasha shoots him an incredulous look. “Uh, _no way_. We all know how he’s about the statements, but Jon is an even bigger workaholic than I am.”

“Okay, just checking if we’re on the same page here,” Tim reassures her. “So you're implying that, what, he’s much more sick than he let on, but unable slash unwilling to get help and is going to die before reaching out to anyone?” He lets his own words sink in and sighs. “Yeah, okay, that sounds like Jon.”

“We’re lucky if he’s just sick,” Sasha mumbles under her breath. She has a bad feeling about this, one she can’t really explain. What was the statement Jon was investigating? Vittery’s, Sasha remembers now, the one with the spider. Or spiders, plural. Jon visibly didn’t seem thrilled about doing a follow-up on that one, but he refused to switch with Martin, probably considering the offer an affront to his qualifications or pride (or both), no matter how Martin assured him that _it’s fine, I like spiders, actually, they are really — um, anyway, let me help!_

Sasha makes a decision. “Grab your things,” she tells Tim, going to the rack to pick up her coat. “We’re going to check up on him.”

“Wait, for real?” Tim sounds genuinely surprised, but she hears him get up regardless. “Do you really think it’s a good idea? Because if he isn’t like, _dying_ , he’s going to chew us out for showing up at his place unannounced.”

“Take Martin, too,” Sasha just says, searching her pockets for a hair tie. She has so many of them, yet it never seems to be quite enough. “We will make it a team building trip or something.”

“I just want to remind you it’s Valentine’s Day,” Tim tries again. “If, by some unforeseen turn of events, Jon is actually spending it with someone, I think it’s going to break Martin’s heart.” 

She pauses in her search to look over her shoulder at him. “Martin’s broken heart or Jon yelling at us for invading his privacy out of concern aren’t the worst things that can happen, Tim,” she reminds him.

He holds her gaze for a moment and nods, serious. “You got it, boss. We can take my car.” Before he leaves, he slides something off his wrist, calls, “Here,” and throws it at her. She catches the hair tie easily, mouths a _thank you_ and pulls her hair up. It’s all business now.

…

“Well then,” Tim says cheerfully as he drives them out of the car park, “that was officially our last group physical therapy session! We’re free.” He holds out his hand for a fist bump.

Sasha does bump her fist with his, mostly so he will put his hand back on the steering wheel. “We still can take additional individual sessions, free of charge,” she reminds him absentmindedly.

“I know, but I don’t think I will. I believe I healed up pretty nice, all things considered.” Sasha glances at him from her seat; Tim’s scars stand out a little less than her own, but the… damage the worms did to both of them was rather comparable. “How about you? You will take them up on that?”

“Mm. Maybe.” She shrugs, scratches her arm. “My joints aren’t what they used to be.” Tim laughs at that and she elbows him in the side. “Don’t be disrespectful towards your elders and betters.”

“You’re literally only three years older than me, but whatever you say, ma’am,” he agrees dutifully.

It’s early evening now and the traffic is as smooth as it gets in this part of London. Sasha looks out of the window, watching people go about their lives, wondering how many of them had experiences with things that are unfathomable and inexplicable yet real. How many of those who did managed to live through them.

She’s been wondering about these things quite a lot, recently.

They’re on the bridge when Tim asks, “What are you thinking about?”

Sasha startles a little at the sudden question. “Oh, you know. Wondering when will a double-decker bus crash into us and all.”

“Ha, ha. The audience gasps, she’s a smartass _and_ a comedian!” Tim deadpans. She chuckles; it’s only a playful jab, Tim is actually a very good driver. She watches him inhale and exhale deeply, and then he says, quiet, “I wish you didn’t do that.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Quote songs you don’t like?”

“Deflect,” Tim corrects. Sasha feels her smile falter. He continues to look at the road as he adds, “You’ve been so — awfully calm and yet... _intense_ , somehow,ever since the worms almost ate us, it’s freaking me out.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, hiding her hands into the sleeves of her sweater, so Tim won’t see they’re trembling, clenched. Sometimes her skin itches so badly Sasha has a half-mad thought that they never removed all the worms that tried to burrow into her body.

“What would you rather have me do? Be the one _freaking out_?” she reasons.

“Maybe. I don’t know because it’s been a couple of weeks since we returned to work and you still won’t talk to me. About what’s _important_ ,” Tim adds as she opens her mouth to counter. He drums his fingers on the wheel. “That’s not how we roll, Sash.”

He’s right, of course. And as natural and put together Sasha may do her best to act around the Archives, in spite of everything that has happened, _is happening_ , if she isn’t careful, her mind turns into a minefield of mysteries and secrets that threaten to undo her.

“I… I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she admits eventually and that, at least, is true. “I know things are hard for everybody. Martin is fussing twice as much as he used to and he tries so hard, but he's anxious, I can tell. And Jon is… he is…”

“Taking things surprisingly well, I’d say,” Tim finishes for her, stopping at the junction. “Honestly, I’d expect him to get all highly-strung and cagey, but he seems to be doing fine.” It’s brief, but she catches a glimpse of the same unconscious unease she sees so often on Martin these days before Tim shrugs it off. “Well, people deal in different ways, I guess.”

“I suppose so," Sasha agrees, though her heart isn't in it.

This is the moment she could say, _Talking to Jon gives me headaches. I can’t explain this. He’s a terrible liar, right? So it’d be easy to catch him lying, but I haven’t, yet for some reason nothing he says sounds quite right._

Or she could say, _I don’t trust a word that comes out of Elias’s mouth these days._ Or, _Someone killed Gertrude and I have access to her tapes now, but it's only raising more questions in me_. Or, _There's someone living in the tunnels and if — when — I finally catch them, we will have a very long chat_. Or, _I don’t think we can quit our jobs. I managed to draft the resignation letter, but I just couldn’t sign it._

Instead, Sasha thinks about the tape recorders turning up in places they definitely weren't left behind in, turning on by themselves, and states, “I don’t like talking about these things at the Institute. I don’t think it’s…”

“Safe?”

“Yes. And reasonable.”

Tim pulls up onto her street which is pretty deserted at this time of the day; even the flower shop is closed by now. She collects her things, about to head out, when Tim says, “Sasha. You know you can trust me, right?”

She turns to him, hand on the door handle. He looks so earnest, so well-meaning. Logically, she knows she should keep everybody at arm’s length and under scrutiny until she makes sense of what’s going on, of who she can trust. But trusting Tim is one of the few things that still come easily to her and she can’t imagine being wrong about that.

“I do,” Sasha tells him and smiles. “See you tomorrow.”

Tim smiles back. “Yeah, till tomorrow.”

She watches him drive away and walks to her apartment building, rubbing at her eye. She’s so tired; maybe she will take a long, relaxing bath and go to sleep early for a change. She has about twenty seconds of engaging in those nice thoughts as right before she enters the building, she hears someone call out, “Excuse me? Sasha James, right? Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute?”

Sasha startles, keys in hand, and turns to look at the person standing at the bottom of the steps. Her white hair braided in a top knot stands out against her dark skin; she’s holding some manila folders under her arm. Sasha is pretty sure she has never seen her, but her voice sounds vaguely familiar.

“Who’s asking?” It doesn’t hurt to be too careful, even if she comes out a little rude.

The woman blinks at her. “Oh, sorry. Georgie Barker. I’m not sure if you remember…”

“Oh, right, we contacted you in regards to Melanie King’s statement back in time,” Sasha recalls now. She knows her from _What the Ghost?_ , too. Still, it doesn’t explain why the woman is outside of Sasha’s home, apparently having waited on her. “Um, I’m actually after work hours, in case it wasn’t clear, so I’m sure we can arrange —”

Georgie climbs on the first step. There’s something fraught about the expression on her face and it fills Sasha with the sudden sense of foreboding. “It’s about Jonathan Sims,” Georgie says decidedly. Sasha’s stomach churns. “There's something I have to show you.”

...

“Martin said you were down there. Need help... moving... the boxes...?”

Tim looks up from where he’s sitting cross legged by the wall, apparently making paper planes out of what seems to be the statements. “Hey. I didn’t know you were back,” he says. Between the two of them, she honestly doesn’t know who sounds worse for wear.

“I got back a couple of hours ago and haven't passed out, just napped. I think I’m getting used to the jetlag,” she tries to joke. Tim just _mms_ , still preoccupied. Sasha crosses the room to sit beside him and picks up a sheet of paper, pointedly _not_ looking at the words on the page; she doesn’t think she could stop herself from reading it. These days, it feels more and more like physical need.

So, she doesn’t look at the words as she folds, simply focusing on the motions, and the paper is now a crane.

“I think that’s about as much origami as I can do,” she admits. She could try to know more, of course, but that would feel too much like… well, not cheating. Pushing it, though.

Tim lets out a ghost of a chuckle at that. “I’m not that good myself, but give me a moment.” His work takes longer than Sasha’s, more precise if hesitant, as if he has to remind himself of the next steps. When he’s done, he presents the figure to her.

“That’s a bird,” Sasha says confidently.

“Well, you’re not wrong. It’s supposed to be a swallow, but like I said, not that good.” He throws it back into the box. “My mother's family really likes this stuff and just crafts in general. They can sit together for hours and teach each other new tricks.”

Sasha smiles at that. “That sounds nice. You’ve been to Malaysia recently, right? While I was… away.” It’s generous, calling _getting kidnapped by an evil clown_ as “being away”, but there’s no reason to bring it up now. “Have you visited them?” 

"Yeah, but only for a bit. We’re not that close and I didn't want them to have to deal with me when things got bad." His expression goes sour as he adds, "And they got bad, more quickly and more severely than I’d have expected. This place is cursed and it kills me that we're expected to just _accept_ it.” He shakes his head. “Hell, Basira knew that and still walked in here _willingly_.”

“You know it wasn’t that simple,” Sasha protests. The changes around the Archives in the last months were… significant. “And I think you’d actually like her, if you talked to her for longer than ten seconds.”

“I think you’re doing enough of talking with people for the two of us these days.” It comes out sharp, a little accusatory, but Sasha doesn't have time to dwell on it as Tim continues, “That reminds me. The other day that — what’s her name, that Youtuber — called here, said she can’t reach your phone. Asked to call her back when you return.”

“Right, Melanie. We exchange information sometimes.” Sasha hesitates before saying, “She… she reminds me of Jon.” Tim snorts in disbelief and she bites her lip. “Of who Jon was. I think.”

“Well, she’s certainly luckier than him,” he remarks bitterly. “She dodged the bullet by not ending up working here.”

That’s not a point Sasha can really argue. If only they knew what they know now, before Jon, before Prentiss… How much of a difference would that have made? Talking with Leitner, she felt as if the loops in her mind were being filled, leading to opening new doors, realizing things that she should have connected months ago.

It all felt like standing on the threshold of the knowledge so abstract yet all-pervading when the man started talking about the entities and the rituals… and then Elias showed up and shot him, right in front of Sasha, acutely reminding her how little she still actually knew.

But that does remind her there was a reason she seeked out Tim here, specifically. And she can’t put it off any longer, waiting for another solution to work itself out. 

“I wanted to talk about the Unknowing,” she cuts right to the chase. She can feel Tim tense next to her, alert. “If we proceed with the plan —”

“What, we suddenly have other options than blowing that circus up?” he quips darkly.

“ _Martin’s_ plan,” she clarifies, “a second person will have to stay behind and help him. Daisy has to go, we need her experience and skills. So, that leaves you and Basira.”

Tim looks at her, _really_ looks at her for the first time since she came in. The intensity in his eyes blazes. “Sasha. You can’t be seriously considering that.” When she remains quiet, he repeats, “You _just_ can’t.”

He doesn’t even sound angry, just straight up betrayed, like he can’t believe in what he’s hearing. It breaks Sasha’s heart a little, but she doesn’t relent.

“I don't give a damn about what Elias has to say about bringing you, but I have to listen to what other people involved in this think," she reasons calmly. "And they're worried, Tim. Understandably so."

("You can't let him go with you," Martin stresses. Daisy is quiet from where she's standing by the door to Sasha's office, leaning against the wall. "I'm not even talking about the fact he might do something unpredictable, it's just — he’s not in a good place.” Martin is still holding the cup of chamomile tea he brought for her, his fingers clenched tightly around it. “He's going to get himself killed for the sake of something we still don't really understand, just like Jo—" he cuts himself off there, his chest heaving.

Sasha tells him, steady, "It’s okay. You can say it."

"Just like Jon did," Martin finishes quietly. "This shouldn't be happening, Sasha."

"I know, Martin. And I never forget, even for a second, that I was the one who asked the three of you to transfer here with me.” He looks like he’s about to protest, but she smiles at him, even if it’s tinged with sadness. Then Sasha asks, “And what do you think, Daisy?"

The woman glances at her with a grimace. "I'd prefer for Basira to go," she answers and it sounds a lot like, _Is that really a question?_ "Stoker is too emotionally compromised. But this is your operation. You have to make a decision you think has the biggest chance of success on both fronts. And you have to stick with it, whether someone likes it or not.")

She can feel Tim shaking beside her. "You _can't_ tell me to stay behind," he says and the disbelief in his voice faded to something else now: a plea. "Not you. You know what this means to me."

Sasha does; she can’t say she understands, but she knows. It’s been easy to almost forget about that, during all that time they spent working and fooling around together before the Archives — and she thinks sometimes Tim did let himself forget and just live his life without an agenda to it. But then he’d go back from whatever holiday he was on, tell anecdotes around the office and give out silly little trinkets, and then he’d lean against Sasha’s desk and ask, only for her to hear, _Anything new while I was away?_ And she’d be reminded of the time he told her about Danny, the line of his shoulders tense, eyes shadowed and far away. For Tim, that’s what everything has been leading up, his sole reason for being here in the first place.

Can she deny him that, for his own sake? Sasha thinks she could. Tell him to stay behind, have him not listen and come along on his own either way. _Compel_ him to do that, have him never forgive her for it.

She wishes it didn’t feel so much like choosing between losing Tim now or later, one way or the other.

Exhaling, Sasha declares, “I will tell Basira to figure out the details with Martin. They will have to time it all carefully.”

Tim’s restlessness gradually subdues and he sighs — a tired sigh, a relieved one, she can’t tell. Sasha thought making the decision would finally quell her own worries and bring her some semblance of peace, but she supposes it’s asking for too much.

She rests her head on Tim’s shoulder and takes his hand in hers, scarred as they both are.

“We will make it,” she says, squeezing his hand, trying to express everything she doesn’t trust her words to do. “ _We will_.”

It takes a moment, but Tim squeezes back, even if feebly. “I’ll try.”

...

She doesn’t recognize the reflection looking back at her.

Sasha sits at the table in the back, lukewarm coffee in front of her, and she’s looking at herself in the window. It's late, almost midnight and the round-the-clock restaurant is dimly lit, but outside, the streetlights are on. She can clearly see how unevenly she cut her hair, the scissors shaking in her hands; this is the shortest her hair has ever been, yet it still doesn't feel short enough. If she had a clipper at hand, she'd have definitely taken it to her hair.

("This is the first thing you do after waking up from the coma?" Basira asked when she found her in the bathroom, out of breath and watchful. No, _It looks awful, by the way,_ no, _I could have done it for you_ , not even a hello.

It doesn't take Seeing to know Basira is hurt and bitter, perhaps even angry with her, but it's not until she starts talking about what happened that Sasha realizes why. She probably thinks that if she came with them, Daisy would still be alive. Maybe she’s right. Sasha has made more mistakes than she can handle to face, but she listens as Basira talks about Elias's arrest, the Institute's new Head and his assistant.

By then, there's only one name she hasn't mentioned yet.

"If he's dead, then — just say so." Sasha's voice is still rough from disuse, but she knows it's not the reason for the way it cracks in the middle of the sentence.

"It's not that simple," Basira responds. She sighs and looks away for a moment, her expression troubled. "He died… and then he came back."

Sasha's grip on the sheets tightens. "What do you — ?" The realization settles in with ice cold dread. " _Oh_. Which one?” She leans forward on the bed, desperate. “Which one is he, Basira?")

“This place, huh. You’re not getting sentimental, are you?”

She turns around and sees Tim. He looks — normal, actually. Less perpetually exhausted and unkempt than he did a few months ago. His hair is shorter and his scars from the Prentiss attack are more faded. Even though it’s a chilly night, he’s dressed very light. Only his eyes seem to shine unnaturally bright, but with a different sort of fire than they did before the Unknowing.

And that can not _not_ remind her of the last memory she had of him — of too many wrong arms pulling at her, trying to pick her apart as Tim stood there on unsteady legs, bloodied and taunting Nikola without taking joy in it, but before he pressed the button, he turned to look at Sasha one more time.

This is still painfully fresh, it feels like it was yesterday — and to her it was, in many ways.

“Tim,” she says, and it comes out relieved and careful and hopeful all at the same time.

“Sasha,” he greets. It’s not dismissive, but it’s not very warm or welcoming, either; that’s not how Tim says her name, this feels wrong. He slides into the seat opposite of her, raising an eyebrow. “I haven’t been here in ages. I seem to remember you criticizing it.”

“I didn’t,” she protests. “Well, maybe at first. But then they served the food and I couldn’t be proven more wrong.” Admittedly, they were both tipsy and starving by the time they made their way here, laughing and holding onto each other to keep themselves from stumbling. They spent the evening drinking and dancing, and Sasha remembers her legs were killing here by this point, and she was _this_ close to taking Tim up on his offer of a piggyback ride. “It… it wasn’t a bad first date, all things considered.” She smiles, or at least tries.

She almost thinks Tim will smile, too, but he just presses his lips together. “Well, first and _only_ date. And look at us now," he scoffs. "Seems like we just can’t stay dead. Nice haircut, by the way."

Sasha can't stand it, this dissonance, the yawning distance between them; she reaches across the table, about to cover Tim’s hand with hers, but he just says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” pointedly looking at her right hand. She pauses, glancing at it, too, at the bursting pinkish scar on the brown of her skin; remembers sitting with Jude Perry on the stands of a stadium, knowing that there will be a price to pay for her statement, but willing to suffer it regardless. Recalls Jude taking the tips of her fingers into her palm, scalding hot, and saying, _Well, to the old adversaries and new,_ as she leaned in to press a kiss to the back of Sasha’s hand. 

“I seem to heal quickly,” Sasha states, but she lets her hand rest on the counter, just a few inches away from Tim’s.

He snorts at that, regards her for a long moment before he speaks again. “They were saying you wouldn’t wake up.” Briefly, she wonders if he visited her while she was in the hospital, but doesn’t ask. “Yet here you are, not even four months later. Fine."

The last word stings in an unexpected way, but Sasha metaphorically grinds it into dust. “Another thing that comes with the position, I suppose ,” she replies, leans against the backrest. She’d like to think she can wait Tim out if need arises; besides, there are other things they need to talk about. “Speaking of which. I heard you’re not working at the Institute anymore.”

“Nope.” This, at least, seems to please Tim, even if in a vindictive sort of way. “I guess dying severed my connection to the stupid eyeball.” Sasha nods; she figured as much. “And I told Basira so, but I may as well repeat it to you: I’m not going back there.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.” There are multiple reasons for that. She frowns. “Do you think that’s why I wanted to meet?”

“Well, I don’t know, Sasha, you weren’t very clear in your note — which, by the way, thanks _so much_ for finding out where I live now. I almost wish you hacked that, but, well, I _know_ better.” He picks something up from his pocket, a crumpled piece of paper with Sasha’s handwriting on it. _I will wait all night at the place that has the best crispy fries this side of the Thames_ , she wrote. Sasha watches as the paper — well, it doesn’t ignite because there’s no flame, but it turns charred and blackened, little flakes falling off. “Whops. Sorry,” Tim says, not sounding sorry at all. “I still am learning to get hang of all those _funny quirks_ , you know.”

“There are more?” she asks carefully.

“Oh, you can probably figure it out. I had a talk with Jude, too,” Tim says, dismissive. Sasha’s hand itches again.

“But you haven’t joined their group, right?” The look of utter disbelief she receives in return is almost reassuring.

“What group?” He waves his hand. “They’re still in disarray, divided and deserted. Besides, I’m not interested in getting mixed up with another cult so soon after the last one.” At last, Tim smiles at her, though calling it a smile seems like a stretch. “What, you’re worried you’ll have to deal with me? I know Gertrude had _particular_ feelings about the Desolation.”

“I wouldn’t —” Sasha starts, but he shakes his head.

“No, don’t try to sugarcoat things, Sash. Haven’t you gone after that thing that wore Jon’s name with a hammer and a knife?” _It’s not the same and you know it_ , she wants to argue, but Tim goes on, “So don’t tell me you wouldn’t try to stop me if I went rogue.”

When she says, “I don’t think you’re so far gone,” she means it. Tim sneers, but she talks over him, “I don’t _want_ to think that, but still, I have to ask: are we going to have a problem?”

She registers the static crackling around her words; Tim winces, but his voice is clear when he says, “No. At least, I don’t want that, too.” He inhales sharply, if shakily. They’re both quiet for a moment before he starts, “Do you know what I was thinking about, back when I had the detonator in my hand? I didn’t think about how this is going to save the world, about how we’re doing the heroic sacrifice or whatever. I only cared about the fact that finally, I will destroy the monster that took Danny away. And that…” His eyes go back to hers briefly before he looks away again. “And that this will be the end of it all for me. And in a way, I was glad.” He chuckles sharply. “So imagine how unpleasant the surprise of returning was.”

And Sasha asks one of the world’s oldest questions, the kind you ask even though you know the answer.

“Did it hurt?”

“It did. Oh, it did.” He pauses then, raises his arm. “It felt as if my body was… being molded into shape, like firing a clay vessel.” Sasha watches him clench and unclench his hand — _something_ that she knows is his hand, but its shape and texture are all wrong, like… “Well, more accurately, I suppose it was like making a candle,” Tim finishes flatly as he wills his hand back to normal. “I’m not even sure what would kill me and what wouldn’t, at this point,” he adds with alarming frankness. ”This body can withstand _a lot_.”

(Weeks later, Sasha will remember this part, after she listens to Gertrude’s tape with Arthur Nolan, and feel sick as the knowledge of Eugene Vanderstock’s fate appears in her mind. She will wonder if Tim realizes how _right_ he was.)

“I can feel it, the call of this — power,” Tim remarks, faintly disgusted, “whispering things to me like wisps of smoke clinging to my mind. It wants to do irreparable damage, to inflict pain that lasts. I might have avenged my brother and the circus is no more, but I know there are other terrible things out there and I could go after them.” His smile is bitter as he continues, “Even though I quit, sometimes I want to go to the Institute and just set the whole damn place alight, and I think I wouldn’t even care that much that you guys are still there.” He lets that sink in and then he shrugs. “But I can still recognize which impulses are mine and mine alone, and which... flames are being fanned.”

“How are you dealing with this?” Sasha can’t help but wonder.

“I’ve been managing,” is Tim’s curt reply, and she knows she won’t get more than that out of him.

She tries a different angle. “What are you going to do now?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Go on a months long kayaking trip. Preferably with some hiking,” he muses, non-committal. “Somewhere far away. I heard New Zealand is nice this time of the year.”

“You don’t have to go through this alone, Tim,” Sasha tries; she has never quite wished she could close the distance with another person this much before. 

Tim just shakes his head. “What, you will go with me? You can’t. And even if you could, you wouldn’t,” he says with a mirthless little laugh. “I can hardly believe it’s something that changed, especially now that I’m not human anymore.” 

There’s it, that word, the final straw; the laugh that bubbles out of Sasha’s own throat is a little hysterical, but mostly just resigned. “I’m not, either,” she admits; saying it out loud is freeing. “I know how this will sound, but waking up from the coma was a choice, one I had to make if I wanted to come back. Less human, more the Avatar. This is something Gertrude was very peculiar about, but she got it wrong, anyway.” Sasha thinks about Michael, about what little she found out about Emma; she thinks about Jan Kilbride and Gerry, and even Leitner — human costs Gertrude didn’t enjoy, but sacrificed them all the same. “There are many kinds of monsters, and I can stand to be one if it means no one else will get hurt.” She looks at Tim, almost desperate. “Maybe we’re not human, but we’re still _people_.” 

Tim seems genuinely sad as he says, “Your eyes have gotten greener.” Is that an observation or an agreement? — she doesn’t know. Sasha doesn’t go after him when he leaves; she just sits at the table, pressing the heels of her hands into those very eyes until she doesn’t feel like crying anymore.

…

It's quiet here, in the Lonely.

It wasn't so quiet when she first entered, stumbling her way through the sand, yelling for Martin, trying to find him, only to have him turn into the mist for the last time, right in front of her eyes. It wasn't so quiet when she extracted the statement out of Peter Lukas, anger, grief and power making for a cold and lethal combination as the waters calmly washed over the shore.

Lukas is dead, but it's not much of a consolation because Martin is gone. Now she wonders if she ever stood a chance of saving him. She charged into the Lonely desperate, against Elias’s ( _Jonah’s_ ) warnings, determined to get him out yet with the silver of a doubt in her heart that she’d succeed. Maybe that's the doubt — not even the fear — that sealed Martin's fate. Or maybe he was just too tired to fight against the current any longer and willingly faded away. She doesn't know. She doesn't want to _know_. 

She was so determined to do better than Gertrude, to do _right by people_ , but whether here and now or there and then, she wasn't enough and she failed Martin, just like she failed everyone else — Basira, Daisy, Jon, Tim...

Sasha can't tell when she stopped walking or for how long her knees have been sinking in the sand. It's cool and foggy, so grey and thick that it's like dirty cotton filling the air, muffling even the waves. Martin was right; things are quiet here, gentle. Being here, she can't fail or hurt anyone else, be it her friends or helpless bystanders. She can't play her part in Jonah's plan. She won't become more of a monster than she already is.

It's quiet here, until suddenly, it isn't.

"Sasha!" a voice calls, strained, but not far away. "Sasha, where are you?"

It sounds like Tim, which doesn't make sense. Sasha's lips move, but nothing audible comes out.

And then there's a shape entering her field of vision, and it is Tim, washed of colors and fuzzy around the edges, yet solid, somehow, as he drops on the ground next to her. Tim's hands are on her cheeks now and with the smallest of startles, she realizes — they don't burn her. They're hot, yes, very hot, the first and only warm sensation she's felt since stepping into the Lonely, and the contact isn't hurting her.

"Sasha, hey. Look at me, Sasha, please," Timasks, _pleads_. It requires an effort to focus her eyes on his face, moisture clinging to her lashes as she blinks and takes him in. Despite everything, Tim seems out of place here, the fog not quite clinging him, dampness of their surroundings meeting his exposed skin with a sizzling noise.

“Tim,” she manages finally. Her lips feel numb. “I couldn’t save Martin.”

He sighs, just a little. “I know. And I’m… I’m sorry I wasn’t here, for either of you.”

“It’s okay,” she tells him. She thinks it shouldn’t be okay, but it feels like that, anyway. “You… did what you could. And you got out. You deserved that much, at least.”

“I didn’t really do a damn thing,” Tim says with a twinge of bitter humour. “I’ve been running — towards, away from something, I don’t know anymore.” He shakes his head. His eyes, toneless ( _what color they should be?_ ), focus on her again. “Sasha, ask me why I’m here.”

Sasha closes her eyes for a moment and when she opens them again, she feels the other ones awaken, too. “Why are you here, Tim?” she asks, her voice finally sounding stronger, boomed by the compulsion.

“I came because you said you needed help,” he tells her, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "And you can need help cutting your hair, folding origami or getting out of other planes of existence for all I care, because I will always come, for as long as you will have me." He smiles at her in a way that feels distinctly familiar and nostalgic. "I’m here because I love you. I always have.”

It’s soft, the confession. Somehow, it sounds the same as all those times Tim acted delightfully scandalized by her upping him on the shenanigans, when he'd tease her about having one coffee too many before noon or too few drinks after work, how he'd tell her, _I got your back,_ even if he didn’t speak a word.

Somehow, it’s something that Sasha has known all along. When she blinks, Tim's eyes are the melted brown they've always been.

She tips forward, wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face against his shoulder, choked up and lightheaded. Tim's arms encircle her, pressing against her back, spots of warmth slowly seeping away the cold. 

“Thank you,” she whispers eventually, lifting her head to press her lips against the shell of his ear. "For… for not giving up on me."

"You didn’t give up on me, either,” Tim reminds her. “That’s only fair, don’t you think?" 

It's getting easier to breathe, now that the sensations are returning to Sasha's body. She leans away, about to say something, but instead, she cups Tim's cheek and asks, "Are you okay?:

He considers it for a moment. “I’m not in pain, if that’s what you’re asking. But… I do feel different, somehow,” he admits,a little confused. 

“Your connection to the Desolation…” she starts, then shakes her head; they will have time to talk about that later. She gets up unsteadily. “Let’s get out of here.”

He takes the offered hand. “You know how?”

Sasha smiles. “I do now.”

It’s hard to say who’s holding up whom as they begin to walk, sand crunching under their feet, waves washing over the shore. Tim's hand is warm and solid in hers, and it feels right.

**Author's Note:**

> truthfully this fic was kickstarted into existence when i realized that not only love beats the lonely but (according to jonny in s4 q&a) a "pure act of altruistic love" would be required to sever one's connection to the desolation and i was like. oh. _oh_.
> 
> went with fanon popular idea of jon getting not-themed, though in this version the stranger takes an L because i'd imagine not them doesn't choose _not_ to re-write georgie's memories, she's simply off its radar due to being cut away from the fear which leads to resolving the impostor situation quicker and in a different manner
> 
> god writing this was a ride. kudos and comments are much appreciated! hmu @ lenaleeiee on twitter


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